Chapter Three: What I'll Miss the Most
Zaria's pov:
October mornings in Dhaka always start with noise — the kind of noise you don't realize you'll miss until it's gone. The ruti-wala shouting down the street, the ring of bicycle bells, the sizzling of oil from downstairs, and that faint radio song about love and rain.
I walked to school with Maya, our shoes tapping the uneven pavement in sync. The air was still thick with the smell of fuchka, chotpoti, and fresh rain on dust.
Dhaka was messy, beautiful, and alive — every part of it bursting with color.
"You still haven't told anyone, have you?" Maya asked, adjusting her backpack.
I shook my head. "Not yet. I don't even know how to say it."
"You better tell them before someone else does. My mom can't stop bragging about how we're going to America together," she said, half laughing, half nervous.
Her words made my chest tighten. We're going to America together. It still didn't feel real — like something out of the stories we used to whisper through our windows when we were four.
We'd grown up side by side — literally. Her bedroom window faced my balcony, close enough for us to trade notes tied to strings or sneak snacks back and forth.
The first time we met, she had shouted, "Hey, do you wanna be friends?"
And that was it. That was how my forever started.
Our school stood tall and worn-out, its walls faded from too much sunlight and too many generations of students. Inside, the sound of voices filled every corner — teachers calling roll, girls giggling, boys whispering about cricket scores.
At morning assembly, we stood in straight lines as the flag was raised. The heat pressed down on us, and when the national anthem began —
"Amar shonar Bangla… ami tomay bhalobashi…"
I sang it like I always did. But this time, my throat felt tight.
My golden Bengal.
I love you.
The words hit different when you knew you'd soon be half a world away.
Classes passed in a blur. In English, Miss Nabila read my essay aloud again — something about change and bravery. In math, I solved a problem before the teacher even finished explaining.
Everyone looked at me, but it didn't feel like pride anymore. It felt like a goodbye waiting to happen.
By tiffin break, the whispers had started.
"Ria's going abroad."
"America, I think."
"With her best friend!"
"She's so lucky."
Lucky.
The word stung more than it should have.
Maya and I sat under the neem tree, unwrapping her lunch — beef roll, aloo chop, and one perfectly peeled orange. She always brought extra food for me.
"You think America has rolls like this?" she asked, halfway through her bite.
"Probably not," I said. "They have burgers, though."
"Burgers?" She laughed. "Nothing beats Dhaka street food. Promise me you'll miss Dhaka more than the food."
I nudged her shoulder. "I'll miss Dhaka most. Always."
Her smile faded for a moment, replaced by something quieter — something that said she understood exactly what I was feeling.
After school, we walked home slower than usual, weaving through the chaos of rickshaws and school vans, the smell of frying jilapi floating through the air.
Outside our apartment building, we stopped at our usual spot — her window, my balcony.
She leaned on the sill, sunlight catching her earrings. "Can you believe we're actually leaving soon?"
"No," I said softly. "But I'll believe it when the plane takes off."
That night, the city felt softer somehow. Sofia had fallen asleep clutching her stuffed rabbit, and Mom's faint humming drifted from the kitchen where she washed the last of the dishes.
I sat on my balcony, the same one that once connected me to Maya's window, knees tucked to my chest. Dhaka stretched before me — glowing lights, endless sounds, stories I was part of and soon wouldn't be.
Somewhere in the distance, a radio played an old Bengali song — "Ei poth jodi na shesh hoy…" — a melody about journeys that never truly end.
Lia texted me:
"Can't sleep? You'll miss it all, you know. And that's okay."
She was right.
I'd miss the smell of morning cha, the azan echoing through dawn, Sofia's messy hugs, the way Mom scolded and cared in the same breath.
I'd even miss Dad's strictness — the curfews, the pressure, the way he always asked about grades before birthdays.
Because maybe that's why I dreamed of freedom so much.
Maybe that's why I wanted to study hard, to be someone who deserved that freedom.
I closed my eyes, breathed in the city air one more time, and whispered,
"I'll make you proud, Dhaka. I'll make them all proud."
Below, the street quieted. A lone rickshaw bell echoed, and the smell of frying onions drifted through the night.
And under that fading moonlight, I realized something —
I wasn't just dreaming of leaving anymore.
I was dreaming of becoming.